


I find it hard to tell you (I find it hard to take)

by Finduilas



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Off-screen Character Death, Pack Feels, Stiles and Derek do not die!, and it happens before the fic starts, just want to make that very clear, the character death is Erica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finduilas/pseuds/Finduilas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Boyd makes it back without Erica, Derek has to deal with the loss. And he gets Stiles’ help, whether he wants to or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I find it hard to tell you (I find it hard to take)

**Author's Note:**

> \- This fic is basically me dealing with the death of a colleague, who lost her life on the job. So I guess in a way this is dedicated to her, even though she probably never even knew what Teen Wolf was. Rest in peace, Valentine.  
> \- Title from _Sad World_ , by Gary Jules, because it’s one of the songs they played at my colleague’s funeral.  
> \- I am working under the assumption that, with Gage not coming back for season 3, Erica will be killed. This fic deals with the aftermath. It starts after Erica has been killed, so her death is not onscreen. And while obviously the subject of this fic is a bit heavy, it does have a happy/hopeful ending.  
> \- Beta’d by the ever wonderful Space.

It’s cold out, and it seems fitting for a day like today but Stiles’ ‘decent’ jacket does nothing to protect him from the wind. He shivers and he’s sure Scott can tell because he looks at Stiles, tries to shoot him a reassuring smile, but fails horribly. Stiles tries one of his own, but aborts the mission even halfway when he can feel tears well up in his eyes. He goes back to staring at the picture in front of the coffin. Erica is beautiful as she smiles up at all of them, and Stiles takes a deep breath to steady himself.

 

Erica’s mother is sobbing heavily, as her father squeezes his wife’s hand and looks just as distraught, and Stiles thinks it’s odd to share the pain of these people that he never even knew. He’d been so caught up in the werewolf aspect of it all, in them being a pack, that he never even realized Erica had a family all of her own as well. There’s a lanky teenager, what he assumes might be a cousin, and a short grey-haired lady who might be a grandmother or a great-aunt, and there’s uncles and aunts and people that look distinctly like Erica and they’re all grieving and trying to deal with the pain and Stiles never even knew they existed. Erica never spoke of them. Or Stiles never asked.

 

There’s a priest talking about the tragic accident, feeding the cover-story of how she died, and Stiles avoids his father’s gaze because he doesn’t need to be a genius to know that the Sheriff has his doubts. He hasn’t asked Stiles about it though. Stiles is grateful.

 

Derek is standing at the back, his face expressionless. Boyd has tears running down his cheeks, and his shoulder is pressed up against Isaac’s in a silent support, and Stiles wonders if maybe this will bring the two of them closer together. Or tear them apart entirely.

 

Stiles can’t help but feel that it should’ve been the Betas carrying the coffin, even though he knows why they couldn’t. It still feels wrong.

 

Erica’s picture stares up at Stiles, and Stiles mumbles an apology under his breath. He can feel Scott’s hand on his elbow.

 

Derek leaves before the ceremony is over.

 

***

 

“It was a beautiful service,” the Sheriff says as they enter the house, because it’s the kind of thing one says in these situations.

 

Stiles just nods as he pries loose his tie.

 

“Lots of people… friends…” the Sheriff goes on.

 

Stiles wants to comment that half of those people wouldn’t even give her the time of day when she was still an outcast, but he decides against it. After all, it’s not like he ever did either, and that thought alone is enough to make bile rise up in his throat.

 

He shrugs off his jacket and grabs something warmer from the coat rack. The tie is forgotten over the back of a kitchen chair.

 

“Is it okay if I go to Scott’s for a bit?” Stiles asks, but he’s already got his car keys in his hands.

 

“You alright, son?” the Sheriff asks, worry written all over his face.

 

“Yeah…” Stiles lies, shrugging, “Just… funerals.”

 

His father nods, puts his hand on the crook between Stiles’ shoulder and neck and squeezes.

 

“Be careful, okay?” the Sheriff says, and Stiles feels bad for leaving when his father so obviously would prefer him to stay. Stiles feels bad about a lot of things.

 

“I love you, Dad,” Stiles says instead, and rushes out of the house before his father can answer.

 

***

 

Stiles isn’t sure if he ever really planned to go to Scott’s, but either way, he’s finding himself in front of Derek’s loft.

 

“You left before the end of the service,” Stiles says when Derek opens the door and promptly turns his back on him and marches back into the loft.

 

“I’m sure she wouldn’t have minded,” Derek says, and his voice sounds cold and disconnected.

 

“You were her Alpha,” Stiles starts, even though he’s sure he doesn’t want to pile onto the guilt Derek is surely feeling.  

 

“She left, I wasn’t her anything anymore,” Derek says, instantaneously, “That’s what got her killed, remember?”

 

Stiles freezes, hand still on the door.

 

“You don’t mean that…” Stiles says, and the set in Derek’s shoulders is stiff and angry.

 

“She made her choice,” Derek simply says.

 

“It’s not her own fault she’s dead,” Stiles says, finally closing the door behind him maybe a little too forcefully.

 

“It’s not mine,” Derek bites back, but Stiles can read between the lines, can see the guilt shine off Derek’s face clear as day.

 

“It’s not,” Stiles says, and he can see Derek stopping himself from arguing, from countering what Stiles said, even though he just agreed with Derek’s words.

 

There’s a silence that fills the room as Stiles steps forward a bit, scoffing his feet on the ground.

 

“She would’ve hated that ‘it was her time, God has called her to Him’ crap,” Stiles huffs, to fill the silence.

 

He thinks he can see more than hear Derek snort slightly.

 

“It’s always the same things they say,” Stiles says, shrugging, “And it’s never helpful.”

 

He still remembers all the clichés he had to hear when his mother passed away. He wonders if Derek has the same memories from his family.

 

“Nothing is helpful,” Derek says finally.

 

And Stiles is just about to nod when Derek adds, “You being here isn’t either.”

 

Stiles swallows away the lump in his throat, fights the urge to maybe try and punch Derek in the face.

 

“Yeah, well, at least I’m trying,” Stiles says instead.

 

“Don’t try on my account,” Derek says, his voice sounding empty and hollow, as he disappears up the stairs.

 

Stiles looks at the door, but settles down on the couch. He leaves an hour later, when Derek still hasn’t come down.

 

***

 

They sit together in the school cafeteria, like an unspoken rule to stick together somehow. There’s an empty chair, which seems silly because they never even all sat together when Erica was still alive, but still the chair is there and nobody comments on it.

 

“Are you catching up?” Scott asks Boyd.

 

Boyd shrugs, “Chemistry’s giving me some trouble, but overall it’s alright.”

 

They don’t comment on why Boyd missed so many classes.

 

“Lydia can help you out,” Stiles says around a mouthful of food.

 

“Can you please not pimp me out like my time is going to waste otherwise?” Lydia protests, but Stiles notices that she doesn’t say no.

 

“Thanks,” Boyd mouths at her, and Lydia tilts her chin like this is beneath all of her even though they all know she’s in this with the rest of them.

 

Isaac is quiet, poking at his mashed potatoes like he’s not quite sure what to do with them. Stiles worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a second, then asks, “How’s Derek dealing?”

 

The table goes quiet, like he’s asked something unspeakable, and Stiles shrugs up his shoulders and mouths, “Wha…?” at Scott.

 

It’s been a few days since he’s seen Derek, and the way they left things when he was last there… well, Stiles is concerned.

 

“Derek is Derek,” Isaac says, finally scooping up some potatoes.

 

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Seuss,” Stiles rolls his eyes.

 

“He’s not really talking,” Boyd says, his head cast down.

 

“When has he ever?” Scott snorts humorlessly.

 

Stiles isn’t quite sure why he wants to argue with Scott on this.

 

“Do you think he’ll…” Lydia starts, looking around like she’s not quite sure she wants to go on.

 

“He’ll what?” Stiles asks.

 

“He’ll turn someone else?” Lydia asks, wary.

 

“He can’t just _replace_ her,” Boyd says, looking horrified.

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Lydia quickly argues, her hands up, “I just meant…”

 

“To up the numbers again?” Scott squints his face, and Lydia nods.

 

“He wouldn’t,” Isaac says, but he’s lacking conviction.

 

“Of course he wouldn’t,” Stiles bites, his fork clattering on the tray. “This isn’t like a job opening that needs to be filled. Erica was…”

 

He sighs, shakes his head. He feels lost.

 

“The Alpha pack is coming, and…” Scott says, hushed.

 

“This isn’t just a matter of numbers, for fuck’s sake,” Stiles says, too loud even for the crowded cafeteria, as he pushes himself up off his chair. “Erica was more to him than that.”

 

He walks off while Scott tries to call him back, and he really doesn’t want to think about why he feels so offended on Derek’s behalf.

 

***

 

There’s the spot in the forest, where she died, and Stiles is both surprised and not to find Derek there.

 

“It isn’t your fault, you know,” Stiles says, his fingers tightening around the single rose he’s holding in his hands.

 

Derek gets up off the ground, pats some dirt off his pants and says, “I know,” when he makes to leave.

 

“I don’t think you do,” Stiles says, and it makes Derek stop in his tracks.

 

“Stop trying to…” Derek rolls his hand, like he’s looking for words, “… whatever it is you’re trying to do. Just stop it.”

 

“I’m trying to make you understand that you’re not the cause of all evil,” Stiles says, firmly.

 

“Are you sure about that?” Derek snorts, but it comes out tired.

 

“If you hadn’t turned her into a werewolf, she wouldn’t have been fighting Alphas,” Stiles says.

 

“I thought you were trying to convince me it _wasn’t_ my fault?” Derek says, his jaw clenched.

 

“If she had left with Isaac instead of Boyd, maybe Isaac would be dead?” Stiles goes on, “If Peter had gotten killed in the fire, Scott wouldn’t have been turned. If Mom’s first chemo had worked, she would still be alive. If I had worn a different jacket to the funeral, I wouldn’t have been cold all morning. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

 

“You’re trying to make an actual point?” Derek says, exasperated, but he still hasn’t walked away, so Stiles counts it as a win.

 

“You can’t blame yourself for every little thing,” Stiles says, “You didn’t kill Erica.”

 

“I brought her into it,” Derek says.

 

“And she accepted,” Stiles counters, “And then she decided to leave. That was her choice too. Or do you blame Boyd for her death?”

 

“Boyd didn’t want this to happen,” Derek says immediately.

 

“Neither did you,” Stiles says. He rolls the stem of the flower between his fingertips.

 

“Boyd wasn’t responsible,” Derek says, as if to clarify.

 

“Neither are you,” Stiles doesn’t miss a beat.

 

Derek sighs. Then asks, “How are you so convinced of that?”

 

“You’re an ass, Derek,” Stiles says matter-of-factly, “But you’re one of the good guys.”

 

It sort of surprises Stiles that Derek seems to accept that as an answer.

 

***

 

Stiles slips and falls in Lacrosse practice. It’s stupid, and Coach yells for him to walk it off until his sees his wrist start to swell.

 

“Oh Jesus,” Coach sighs, rolling his entire head like Stiles somehow planned to injure himself just to spite him.

 

“Can you move it?” Scott asks, and Stiles tries but the pain spikes and _damn it_.

 

“Go get the school nurse,” Coach yells at Greenberg, who sprints off.

 

“I think he might need to go to the hospital, Coach,” Scott says, and Coach mumbles something under his breath.

 

“I’ll call my Dad,” Stiles says, because he doesn’t want anyone else to call him and say the words “your son” and “hospital” in the same sentence.

 

And that’s how he ends up in the emergency room, waiting on the results of the X-rays while his Dad is off to go get a cup of coffee, at Stiles’ insistence.

 

Stiles sighs as he cradles his arm against his chest. His right wrist is swollen and throbbing with pain, and Stiles wonders if this will somehow get him out of doing homework, or if it’ll just make doing it a million times more difficult.

 

When he looks up, around the examination room, his eyes land on Derek, standing outside the open door – his Dad forgot to close it – staring at him.

 

Stiles opens his mouth, before closing it with an audible click. Derek just looks at him, fists clenched next to his body, eyes falling to Stiles’ wrist.

 

‘It’s probably just a sprain,’ Stiles wants to say, but before he can even utter the words, Derek’s face closes off again and he turns on his heels, walking away.

 

“What the…?” Stiles mutters, and then his Dad walks back in, to-go cup in his hand, looking over his shoulder into the hallway.

 

“Was that…?” the Sheriff asks, frowning as he looks back at Stiles.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, because denying just seems silly.

 

“What was he doing here?” the Sheriff asks, before casually sipping at his coffee. His eyes never leave Stiles though.

 

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, and it’s the truth.

 

“He was at Erica’s funeral too,” the Sheriff says, and his voice is soft and understanding just at the mention of her name.

 

“I know,” Stiles says, fingers of his good hand poking gently at the injured wrist. It hurts, but it’s manageable. It hurts less than the mention of Erica’s name.

 

“Do you know him well? Is he…?” the Sheriff trails off.

 

“Dad, I…” Stiles sighs, because he honestly doesn’t know what to say. Are they friends? He’s not sure he has an answer to that.

 

“He’s handsome. I mean, I understand, but Stiles…” the Sheriff sighs, shaking his head.

 

“What?” Stiles’ head snaps up, utterly confused.

 

“There’s a lot of baggage, and I’m not sure he’s…” the Sheriff starts, looking uncomfortably into his cup of coffee, and Stiles feels another surge of wanting to defend his actions, wanting to defend _Derek_ , even though he’s not quite sure where it all comes from.

 

“His past doesn’t mean he shouldn’t make friends, Dad,” Stiles says, before he knows it.

 

His father’s head snaps up. “That’s not what I meant, Stiles,” he says. “I… Are you? Friends?”

 

Stiles ducks his head, looks down at this hands as he shrugs. “I don’t know.”

 

“He’s not a lost puppy you can save,” the Sheriff says, and Stiles bites back a snort.

 

“I don’t pity him, Dad,” Stiles says, finally meeting his father’s eyes. “That’s not what this is about.”

 

And anything else his father was going to say is put on hold by the doctor coming back into the room, holding the X-ray of his sprained – not broken – wrist.

 

***

 

When Stiles walks up the stairs, he can hear the yelling and the crash of what he guesses is some furniture breaking before things get quiet again, abruptly, and Stiles guesses that his presence has been sensed. He thinks about turning back – because his own safety should count for something, right? – but he figures it’s too late anyway, so he ends up in the hallway in front of the door just as it opens and Peter walks out. Well, that explains the yelling.

 

“Stiles,” Peter says, his tone sickeningly sweet, and his eyes drop to the ACE bandage around Stiles’ right wrist. “Oh dear. Did you get hurt again?”

 

Before Stiles can even open his mouth, Derek’s voice is booming through the room, “Leave, Peter!”

 

Peter’s lips turn into a sneer, as he stares down at Stiles, intimidatingly. Stiles tilts his chin up, takes a step to the side and gestures for Peter to walk out. When he doesn’t immediately do so, Stiles says, “I believe you were asked to leave?”

 

Derek appears at the door in the blink of an eye, his gaze fixed on Peter.

 

“It wasn’t a request,” Derek says, his fingers curled around the door, and Stiles wonders if it’s possible to spot when the claws are nearing the surface.

 

“So touchy,” Peter says, but he’s walking past Stiles anyway.

 

Stiles shuffles a little closer to Derek.

 

“You really need to learn how to handle a little constructive criticism, nephew,” Peter says with a smirk.

 

Derek barely even moves forward, but Peter has already turned on his heels and is walking down the stairs. They stay quiet for a while, and Stiles can tell Derek is listening for Peter to be completely out of earshot. He wonders how far one has to be exactly to be off a werewolf’s radar.

 

When Derek steps back and lets Stiles enter, Stiles guesses that Peter is far enough.

 

“I liked that table,” Stiles says, nodding towards the remnants of wood scattered around the living room.

 

Derek’s answer is a clenched jaw.

 

“Did you hit it over his head, at least?” Stiles tries for levity.

 

“Why are you here again?” Derek asks, sighing.

 

Stiles holds up his wrapped up wrist. “Sprained, not broken,” he says, very much in a ‘shaken, not stirred’ kind of way.

 

Derek just nods, slightly.

 

“I’m assuming that’s why you came to the hospital?” Stiles says, because, _Jesus_ , this is like pulling teeth. “To check up on me?”

 

“Peter broke it, actually,” Derek says, apropos of nothing, scuffing his foot on the ground and sending a shard of wood flying while he does it.

 

“Seriously?” Stiles asks, eyebrows raised, “You’d rather talk about what just happened with Peter than admit why you were at the hospital?”

 

“I heard you were in the ER, I didn’t know it was just a scratch, okay?” Derek calls out, annoyed, “What do you want from me, Stiles?”

 

“Okay, no, fine!” Stiles says, holding his hands up against Derek’s sudden outburst. “We can talk about Peter, no problem.”

 

“I don’t wanna – ” Derek sighs, exasperated.

 

“So what did you two fight about?” Stiles asks, picking at the thread of the bandage.

 

“What _don’t_ we fight about?” Derek rolls his eyes.

 

“Why do you even still let him in?” Stiles asks.

 

“Because he’s insane, and I’d rather keep him close so I can keep an eye on him,” Derek says, and Stiles has a distinct feeling this isn’t the first time Derek had to ‘justify’ himself when it comes to this subject. “See the danger coming.”

 

“He’s toxic to be around though,” Stiles says, and it’s not hard to tell by the lines on Derek’s face just how true that statement is. “You need to get away from him, for your own peace of mind…”

 

“Look, it doesn’t matter…” Derek tries to brush off.

 

“Like hell it doesn’t!” Stiles says, raising his voice slightly. “He comes into your home, he disrupts everything… Constructive criticism? What does that even mean?!”

 

“Erica,” Derek says, and it shuts Stiles up immediately. Derek’s shoulders fall. “He was talking about Erica.”

 

“Oh Jesus,” Stiles says, as Derek turns away from him. “Look, you can’t believe a word he says, okay? He’s just trying to find a way to get to you! To hurt you!”

 

“You don’t even know what he said,” Derek points out.

 

“Well it ended with a shouting match and ripped apart furniture,” Stiles waves his arms at the floor, “I’m guessing he didn’t come to congratulate you on a job well done!”

 

“There were no immediate lies in what he said…” Derek shakes his head, and he looks so tired.

 

“I’m pretty sure that’s bullshit,” Stiles says, “You need to stop with this guilt you are laying on yourself.”

 

“Don’t you blame me for her death?” Derek asks Stiles, like he can’t quite believe why Stiles isn’t.

 

“No,” Stiles says firmly, and he makes a point of looking Derek straight in the eyes, “I blame the Alphas. I blame the son of a bitch that actually took the life out of her. They are the reason she is dead. Not you, not Boyd, not any of us. But as long as you can’t see that, as long as you’re so hell-bent on taking things out on yourself, you’re not gonna be able to start mourning her, to start getting over this. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been there. And I’m guessing so have you…”

 

“It seems to follow me around…” Derek says, and Stiles knows he means death.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and he ventures a half-smile. “It really needs to stop. It hardly seems fair.”

 

“Maybe I deserve it?” Derek shrugs, but it feels less self-deprecating as before.

 

“Nah,” Stiles says, softly, like he’s scared of disrupting the fragile mood. “You deserve a lot better things, Derek.”

 

Derek looks at him for a bit, half-confused, half like he’s finally found some peace of mind.

 

“I don’t understand why you’d think that,” he says eventually, “What I’ve done to…”

 

“You’re just you,” Stiles shrugs, and he knows he’s putting himself out there but he just can’t seem to help himself. “I think you deserve more, because you’re you. I find that’s probably a good start for… this.”

 

Derek doesn’t actually answer that, but he gives Stiles a tentative smile, and Stiles’ heart feels a lot less heavy when he goes back home.

 

***

 

Stiles is beginning to understand why his Dad told him to leave the dishes for when he got home from his shift, because trying not to get the bandage wet seems to be an impossible task. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s trying to get only his left hand and the fingertips of his right into the water, but it’s impossible to scrub the plates clean this way and water keeps splashing onto the elastic bandage anyway. Soapy dishwater with the occasional speck of food.

 

“Oh, for fuck’s s…” Stiles mutters, water seeping into the bandage as he tries to squeeze the sponge between his fingertips but it just slips out of his hand and drops into the sink, splashing the front of his shirt.

 

“Fuck!” Stiles calls out, and when he turns to grab a towel, he freezes up as he sees Derek standing behind him, towel held out in his hand.

 

“How did you…?” Stiles starts, but shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut for a second.

 

Derek pushes the towel into his hands, then pushes him to the side a bit as he rolls up the sleeves of his henley. Before Stiles even knows what’s going on, Derek is soaping up the dirty plate Stiles just gave up on and handing it to Stiles, who’s still standing there with his mouth open and a dishtowel in his hands.

 

They work in silence until all the dirty dishes are cleared and Stiles hangs the towel over the back of a chair to dry.

 

“Do you have another one?” Derek asks as he nods towards Stiles’ wrist.

 

“Huh?” Stiles asks.

 

“This one got soaking wet,” Derek says as he slides his fingers underneath Stiles’ injured hand, lifting up his fingertips.

 

“In the cupboard above the fridge,” Stiles says.

 

Derek nods, and lets his hand slowly slip out from underneath Stiles’, fingernail of his thumb scraping slightly against Stiles’ skin before he lets go, and Stiles thinks about asking him if maybe he can find an asthma inhaler or something as well, because he’s having distinct problems keeping his breath steady.

 

Derek places the new dressings on the kitchen table, then wordlessly grabs Stiles’ hand again, gently peeling off the wet ones.

 

“You uh…” Stiles starts, staring down at Derek’s fingers working around his skin, “When you came to the hospital…?”

 

“Yes,” Derek says firmly, and it isn’t a ‘yes, go on’, or a ‘yes, I came to the hospital’ but it’s a ‘yes, whatever it is you’re thinking, it’s _yes_ ’, and Stiles feels like he’s at great risk of his knees buckling, so he surges forward and presses his lips against Derek’s in what he’s sure is a completely inelegant move.

 

The ACE bandage falls to the floor as Derek pretty much immediately kisses him back, and Stiles throws his arms around Derek’s neck. The kiss is urgent, and not as gentle as Stiles might have thought from Derek’s careful handling of his wrist earlier. Stiles’ mouth is pliant underneath Derek’s, and all thought of injuries is forgotten when Stiles curls his fingers into Derek’s hair roughly, and hisses into the kiss when the pain sparks.

 

Derek pulls back, and Stiles lets his hand go lax over Derek’s shoulder, but he nudges his face forward, chasing the kiss.

 

“No,” he mutters, nipping his lips against Derek’s, and Derek actually _smiles_ as he uncurls Stiles’ arms from around his shoulders and cradles his injured wrist in his hand.

 

“Let’s take care of this first, okay?” Derek says, reaching for the clean bandage.

 

“First?” Stiles asks, and he can’t hide the stupid grin on his face.

 

“I know you are eager,” Derek says, but his voice is surprisingly soft, “But you’re not injuring yourself even more just to make out with me, okay?”

 

Stiles sputters in protest, “What? You say that like you’re irresistible or something!”

 

Derek just smiles as he carefully wraps the dressings around Stiles’ wrist.

 

“I definitely did not say that,” Derek says, shaking his head slightly.

 

“Yeah, well…” Stiles mumbles under his breath, but he feels his cheeks flush. “You totally came on to me.”

 

“Sure,” Derek says, the corner of his mouth curling up as he ties the bandage with just the right amount of pressure.

 

“You did!” Stiles objects again, but his free hand is firmly pressed against Derek’s chest and Derek is letting him.

 

“Stiles, I agreed with you,” Derek says, but his _tone_ …

 

“Yeah, well, sometimes you agreeing sounds a lot like protest,” Stiles says, and Derek pats him on the firmly bandaged up wrist.

 

Derek’s answer is to capture him in another kiss, and Stiles can definitely live with that kind of argument.

 

***

 

“I feel like I need to have some sort of ‘I’ll kill you if you hurt my best friend’ speech with him or something,” Scott whispers at Stiles, his eyes fixed on Derek’s, who is across the room, as if he can’t actually hear what they’re saying.

 

“I didn’t have a speech like that with Allison,” Stiles shrugs, shooting Derek a smile.

 

The edge of Derek’s lips curl up slightly.

 

“That was different,” Scott says, his focus back on Stiles.

 

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t see it as different,” Stiles says, “It’s exactly the same.”

 

Derek is talking to Isaac, nodding along to what he says, but Stiles knows he’s listening in.

 

“Dude,” Scott starts, “Allison and I were…”

 

But Stiles elbows him in the ribs before he can finish his sentence, and raises his eyebrows at Scott.

 

“Oh man,” Scott says surprised, when the realization sets in, “You’re i…” and he stops himself before he can make the disaster complete.

 

“Oh,” Scott says, and Stiles digs his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

 

“Yeah, this isn’t awkward at all,” Stiles sighs, not quite daring to lift up his face and look at Derek.

 

“I’ll still kill him if he hurts you,” Scott says eventually, with a sly grin.

 

“I’d like to see you try,” Stiles smiles back, and he vaguely wonders if it’s a good thing to encourage your best friend to take on an Alpha.

 

Half an hour later, Derek corners Stiles in the open kitchen.

 

“Listen, about before…” Stiles says tentatively, his good hand braced on the counter like he expects to need some support.

 

But Derek places his hand on crook of Stiles’ neck and leans in, pressing his lips firmly against Stiles’, right in front of everyone. It’s not exactly an ‘I’m in love with you too’ but Stiles feels like it’s pretty damn close.

 

***

 

It happens on a Thursday evening, and there’s word that there’s some funny business going on in the preserve – funny business of the supernatural kind, and possibly related to the Alpha pack – and so Derek decides it might be opportune to go take a look.

 

“Scott, if you could ask Deaton if he’s heard anything…?” Derek asks, because he’s learned that asking Scott nicely gives him more results than barking orders – and yes, Stiles totally takes credit for that.

 

“Sure thing,” Scott says, and Stiles can’t help but feel proud at the display of civility laid out before him.

 

“Isaac and I will take the east side of the preserve,” Derek says, grabbing his jacket, “Boyd, you and Erica ta –”

 

There’s a deadly silence as Derek stops in his tracks, and Stiles gets instant goose bumps. Stiles can hear Isaac swallow hard, and Derek looks frozen in place, his face an open book of pain and grief.

 

Erica’s name resounds in Stiles’ ears, and he closes his eyes for a second, then takes a tentative step towards Derek and places his hand on the small of Derek’s back. It’s like it jolts Derek out of his reverie, and he clears his throat before saying, “Isaac, you go with Boyd to the east side. I’ll take the west side.”

 

“I’ll come with,” Stiles says, pressing his fingertips firmly against the fabric of Derek’s shirt.

 

Derek just nods, and they all break apart to get to work.

 

Derek doesn’t protest when Stiles just leads them out to his jeep and the ride over to the preserve is quiet.

 

When Stiles opens his mouth to say something, Derek simply says, “Don’t.”

 

“Derek…” Stiles says, and he fights the urge to pull over.

 

“It was just force of habit,” Derek shrugs it off, but the set in his shoulders is tense, and he’s refusing to look at Stiles.

 

“It was,” Stiles agrees, “But maybe if you talked…?”

 

“She’s dead, there’s nothing to talk about,” Derek says, so definitively, trying to close the discussion.

 

“I disagree,” Stiles says, because he’s nothing if not courageous, “You can’t just pretend like she never existed. That’s not how mourning works.”

 

“And you’re such an expert on that?” Derek snaps.

 

“Well, I would think you would be by now!” Stiles barks back, and the words are out before he even knows it.

 

Derek breathes in angrily through his nose, and Stiles can feel the frustration radiating off Derek’s body.

 

“Derek, I’m sorry,” Stiles sighs, “I just… I want you to be okay.”

 

They reach the start of the trail into the west side of the preserve, and Stiles pulls over the jeep. Derek steps out without a second glance, and Stiles nearly stumbles out of the vehicle trying to catch up.

 

“I’m afraid you’re keeping everything in and one day you’ll burst and it’ll be too much for me to fix,” Stiles confesses as he hobbles after Derek, who’s been picking up the pace.

 

Derek stops, turns to look at Stiles.

 

“It’s not your job to fix me,” Derek says, and Stiles is at least glad to see that it has calmed Derek down.

 

“I want to make you happy,” Stiles says, honestly.

 

“You do,” Derek answers, without even missing a beat.

 

“I don’t seem to be doing a very good job today,” Stiles huffs, a sad smile over his face.

 

“It’s not a job,” Derek shakes his head slightly, but he comes closer to Stiles and brushes his fingers against Stiles’ cheek. “You miss her too.”

 

Stiles lets out a shaky huff as he smiles weakly.

 

“That’s the first time you admitted you missed her,” he says, his hands gripping the sides of Derek’s jacket at the waist.

 

Derek nods as he closes his eyes, and pulls Stiles close to him. Stiles buries his face in Derek’s neck and just breathes as Derek wraps his arms around him.

 

***

 

“Are you going to calm down any time soon?” Stiles asks casually, as he plops down on Derek’s bed, stretching out.

 

“I am calm,” Derek says, in a distinctly _not_ -calm manner, chucking off his shoes.

 

“Oh yes, I can tell from the way you’re about to crawl out of your skin,” Stiles says sarcastically, spreading his arms out far above his head, trying to stretch his still sensitive wrist. He pretends not to notice the way Derek’s eyes land on the strip of belly that’s exposed as Stiles’ shirt pulls up.

 

“Fighting makes me antsy, okay?” Derek says, whipping off his shirt. “I can’t just get my adrenaline to come down right away.”

 

Stiles nods, because he gets it. Especially tonight, boy does he ever get it.

 

“You got ‘em though,” Stiles says, smiling proudly up at Derek, “You got ‘em all. You win, they lose. That should’ve taught them after ever laying a finger on Erica’s hair…”

 

“We got them,” Derek nods, and Stiles thinks maybe some of the lines of Derek’s frown have faded.

 

They look at each other for a bit, Stiles stretched out on the bed – tired but content – and Derek looking down at him – like maybe he’s not carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders anymore.

 

“Hey Derek?” Stiles asks, venturing a smile.

 

“Yeah?” Derek asks, mirroring Stiles’ expression.

 

“You wanna work off some of that pent-up energy?”

 

And Stiles almost chuckles because he knows that as far as pick-up lines go, that one’s pretty bad, but Derek grins anyway and plasters himself all over Stiles on the bed.

 

“After all, I haven’t been able to jerk off properly in weeks,” Stiles grins, holding up his right hand, and Derek kisses the inside of his wrist before capturing Stiles’ lips and kissing him deeply. Stiles groans as he opens up underneath Derek, arms wrapped firmly around Derek’s shoulders. Derek’s lips find Stiles’ neck, and he squirms, tilting his head back.

 

“I changed my mind, I don’t want you to calm down anymore,” Stiles smiles, as Derek sucks and nips at the skin underneath Stiles’ ear.

 

Derek responds by pressing down his hips firmly, circling them a little against Stiles’ crotch. Stiles spreads his legs, hooks them around Derek’s calves, and encourages the motion.

 

“You were so awesome today,” Stiles says, fingers disappearing in the hairs at the back of Derek’s head.

 

Derek lifts his head just enough to look Stiles in the eye.

 

“So were you.”

 

Stiles smiles and rolls his hips. “Think we can be awesome a bit more?”

 

Derek grins and captures Stiles’ mouth in another kiss.

 

***

 

“I think it’s stupid,” Derek mutters, but he follows the others through the rows of tombstones anyway.

 

“I think it’s a good idea,” Isaac says softly, and he rests his hand on Derek’s arm for a second, and Stiles beams with pride.

 

“Shut up,” Derek mumbles as he bumps his shoulder against Stiles’, but there’s a faint smile on his face.

 

“I have the best ideas,” Stiles counters proudly, and he bumps his shoulder back.

 

Derek doesn’t argue.

 

“She would’ve approved of this,” Boyd says as they finally reach Erica’s freshly finished tombstone.

 

“She wouldn’t even be allowed to drink yet,” Derek says, but it’s more for form than an actual protest.

 

“Like that would’ve stopped her,” Scott smiles fondly, and he passes around the plastic cups.

 

“None of you are allowed to drink!” Derek shakes his head, like he’s questioning his life choices, but he opens the bottle of Scotch anyway and starts pouring as everyone holds out their cups.

 

“It’s not like we can get drunk anyway,” Boyd says at Derek’s worried face.

 

“They can,” Derek says, nodding at Stiles and Lydia.

 

“Don’t worry,” Stiles says, “My Dad’s the Sheriff.”

 

Lydia snorts, and Derek says, “Which would only make things worse for me!”

 

“He’s gonna arrest you no matter what,” Scott shrugs, like it’s no big deal, “once he finds out what you’ve been doing with his son.”

 

Derek groans as he puts the cap back of the bottle, everyone served.

 

“Not cool, dude,” Stiles tells Scott. Scott just grins.

 

They all stare at Erica’s name for a bit, then Derek holds out his cup, and the rest follow suit.

 

“To Erica,” Derek says, after taking a deep breath.

 

“To Erica,” they all repeat, holding their cup up high before bringing it to their lips and downing the drink.

 

Stiles winces as the burning liquid runs down his throat. Erica would definitely approve, he thinks, his eyes fixed on the grey tombstone. He stares at the dates.

 

They’re all quiet for a second, and Stiles leans slightly into Derek’s side. Derek hooks his arm around Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles relaxes into the touch.

 

“She’d be proud of you,” Stiles whispers into Derek’s ear, but Derek just closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. He’s a work in progress, Stiles knows this.

 

Lydia hands her empty cup to Scott, who takes it dutifully. She fishes into her handbag and takes out a small cardboard box. Inside it is a single vanilla cupcake, with pink frosting. She puts a thin candle on it, right in the middle. It’s Boyd that reaches into his pocket and takes out a lighter. Lydia holds out the cupcake for him, and he lights the candle before placing it carefully on the top of Erica’s tombstone.

 

“Happy birthday, Erica,” Lydia says as she takes a step back again.

 

They don’t blow out the candle. 


End file.
